A Helping Hand
by ishwishfish
Summary: Having eavesdropped on Inquisitor Trevelyan and Cullen, Cole steps in to offer some advice.


He tastes the air atop the battlements, clean and fresh like a spring morning, and his thoughts fly free, unfettered. He remembers running through the fields, a barefoot boy delighting in the cry of birds and the smell of new green growth. It is a good day, when he can think of the past without flinching. Then he hears her step and turns to see her, smiling, though inside he twists and tightens.

"I wanted to thank you... when you came to see me..." _you were the last person I wanted to see, and the person I wanted to see more than anything, Maker, that sounds absurd _"If there's anything..." The words catch in his throat, and he sighs. "This sounded much better in my head."

I did not mean to listen, but the birds cried for bread and I came, and now I cannot move, still like a statue, but unseen. They speak, but I can hardly hear what they say over the sound of what they do not.

Her stomach churns with awkwardness, and in her mind the mighty Inquisitor is reduced to a small girl in pigtails, tongue-tied before the handsome young private in her parents' household guard. Every moment makes her feel more foolish. _you're a grown woman, say something, you have to say something_ "You're... feeling better, I take it?"

"I..." _will never be better, no, I cannot say that, it is my burden, today is a good day, that is no lie _ "yes."

She was not supposed to see what she saw in him that day. It was an intrusion, inadvertent and unwelcome, and the knowledge stings. But seeing him as he stands before her now brings more relief than she can reveal, wthout revealing too much. She does not desire to dwell on the darkness, but she does not want to stop talking, either. "Is it... always that bad?" _you said you could die, but you cannot die, please, you cannot_

His desires mirror hers, as they always have. "The pain comes and goes. Sometimes I feel as if I'm back there." _claws on my spine, the whispers like honey and venom in my ear, suffocating, screaming until my throat bled, no, no, stop this, focus, breathe, look at her _ He steadies himself. "I should not have pushed myself so far that day."

"I'm just glad you're all right." _if I could take the pain away I would_

"I've never told anyone what truly happened to me at Ferelden's Circle. I was not myself after that." _I begged her to kill them, all of them, I did not care whether they were guilty. _ "I was angry. For years, that anger blinded me." _ I closed my eyes, I turned away, I did not want to know. I should have protected them._ "I'm not proud of the man that made me." _Maker forgive me, one of them could have been you._

He takes a breath and lets it go. "Now I can put some distance between myself and what happened. It's a start."

She steps closer. "For what it's worth, I like who you are now." _more than that, Cullen, you have no idea how much I want to touch you again_

He is fixed in place, caught in the recollection of a golden afternoon in the garden, a game board, the scent of flowers and her smile. He dared to dream that day. _but that was before she knew _"Even after..."

"I'm serious," and she touches his arm, but in fear fumbles, and a gesture meant in gentleness becomes clumsy, lacking conviction. Inside, she is wilting. _what an idiotic thing to say, this has been a disaster_

They speak of other things, of fear, and it is fitting for both are afraid, each watching the other and hoping to see a signal, a sign to steer them safely down an unfamiliar path. But both are too guarded to guide the other.

"If there is anything I can do..." _kiss you perhaps, Maker's Breath don't be a fool, it is better this way, she is the Herald, she cannot afford the distraction_ "...you have only to ask."

He touches fist to chest in comradely fashion and she summons a smile. _he doesn't think of you that way, how could he, it is better like this, be content with what you have _

They turn from each other, perfectly paired in painful doubt; I see it all so crisp and clear in the morning air. But they cannot see me.

I am here to help, to heal hurts. But here I hesitate, for the hurt is _hers_.

* * *

><p>We leave at dawn. She rides in silence across the bridge, wearing regret like a well-wrapped cloak, while all her thoughts fly up and away, back to the tower behind where he stands a silent sentinel, stretching towards her. I feel his lonely longing even at this distance, and perhaps she does as well? She stirs as we reach the road, twisting, turning to look, but we have gone too far; they cannot see each other.<p>

It is days to our destination: a timeless forest where every tree stands a watch of centuries. The voices of the dead whisper in the restless rustle of leaves, and those of the yet-living cry to us – to her – for aid.

She moves among them like a beacon, a light bright and brilliant. They look to her as she passes, trembling hands stretching, the voices raised in a sea of murmurs: _Help us, Herald, blessed of Andraste, help us, heal us, save us._ She listens, she speaks; by word or touch she helps. Even as the doubt claws at her, she helps. She would save them all.

At camp, after, she sits apart from the rest, staring into the fire, alone.

I see the cracks forming in the face of the marble statue, the stone slowly splitting under the strain, its weight a weapon turned on itself. Her light flickers and falters, failing.

In the morning we find the camp of those who hunt, who hurt, the wolves walking in human skin. On other days she has shown kindness to the cruel, mercy to the merciless, but this day she delivers only justice, swift and final. The edge of her sword is sharper than thought, and we are her willing instruments. Her light is terrible to behold.

Later, when all is still and silent, she sits with Solas, his deft hands binding the bandage round her wounded arm. But her thoughts range far from here, straining against time and distance, towards him _cannot help myself even now, I wish you were beside me, could you possibly feel the same, Maker what a fool I am_, and Solas cannot see it.

"You hurt."

She looks up, smiling with shades of sorrow, ever in her eyes since Haven burned and was buried. Adamant made it worse. "It's nothing, Cole. Just something that slipped past my barrier."

"No. Yes. He hurts, too."

They exchange looks. "Cole, Solas wasn't – "

"Not Solas. He raises walls to keep the demons out, but who protects the protector? A suit of steel has been his shelter, heavy furs to hold in the warmth. They tried to smother it, but they couldn't. He kept it safe, that's what he does, that's what he _is_, but still he suffered, he _suffers_, and now he watches from the window, and waits, and worries. For you."

They are quick to understand. Solas bends his attention towards her bandaged arm, as though he did not hear. She flushes, but does not look away.

"Cole, I... ." _can't, how could I, after everything how could he care for a mage_

"He wants so much, it hurts. But he is afraid." I touch her shoulder, fingers feather-light; like the brush of a bird's wing, she thinks. "The walls are thick, the windows barred and the door locked. He is alone in an empty room, but there is security in separation. That used to be enough. It isn't any more. He sees light shining through the keyhole, but the door has been closed for so long and he is afraid to open it. He should not be. You should not be. Go to him, Inquisitor. He will let you in."

She smiles, then, but the sorrow has fled, and her light is so bright it blinds. I have helped.


End file.
